My friend Alice is currently giving her apartment a makeover. In introducing new life forms into the space, she’s been mulling over buying a very nice white rug that while beautiful, is prone to spots and stains. It’s going in the living room, where people convene with their red-hued adult beverages that spill when too much of these beverages have been consumed.

“I need to just eat on my dining table,” she said, determined to work around the rug of her dreams. “Yup. But if you like eating on it, you have to get another rug,” I reminded her.

Alice’s rug dilemma is symbolic. We’ve all faced similar decisions. Not necessarily related to interior decorating. But we’ve had to choose between the safe option and our heart’s desire, which always seems to be the riskier option. And no matter how prepared we feel to take that risk, we know there will be unavoidable pitfalls along the way. But also, we come closer to achieving great happiness in doing what we want and having the life (or rug) we want.

Some people are masters of change. I’m not. Despite appearances, like my tendency to switch jobs and cycle through boyfriends as quickly as I update my coiffe, I’m actually freaked out by the things I can’t control. Instead of resignation, I resist. Instead of acceptance, I deny. There’s a reason why I’m so fanatically addicted to daily horoscopes, WebMD, and self-help books. And those warning labels on cigarette packs. The British ones are the best, by the way, with those photos of ashy, rotting lungs. The more brutal the prognosis, the better prepared I am.

Six years ago I was fired from a job. My boss and I really didn’t get along, and on top of that, I was grossly overpaid. Instead of letting the horror movie play out, I concluded way early on that she’d eventually let me go. For months thereafter, I’d show up at work with my shoulders slumped, rocking a perma-frown. It was the world’s longest professional breakup. And of course, she did gave me the boot. Looking back, could I have been less miserable every day leading up to the inevitable? Probably. Did anticipating the inevitable soften the blow? Nope.

It’s morning. You are here. We are together in my bed. The light touches your feet which are way outstretched beyond my bed. You’ve been blessed with tall genes, but robbed of what we short people get to experience: the cocoon-like warmth of being burrito-smothered in blankets. Feeling generous, I kick the blanket over your exposed feet. You snort and kick the blanket away. I’m trying not to draw parallels here, but a few weeks ago I said the L word–you know, “I L-word You”)–which was followed by your meditative yet deafening silence, then followed by a generous “thank you.” You hugged me as a consolation. I hug you now.

It’s morning. I am examining my face in the bathroom mirror while you fix us espressos. I can hear you busying away, docile when you’re in the kitchen, care-giving and nurturing in ways I have longed for my entire life. I am distracted by lines I never noticed before. How did they get here, on my face? There’s a frown line that resides between my eyebrows, evidence of being disappointed by unreliable past lovers. From scrunching my face anxiously, angrily, melancholically. Frustrated with myself, mostly, which is why it's on my face. Right now you are giving me everything I want (including a much-needed espresso), yet this line is still visible. I smile. But it’s still there.

A year ago, I decided to start a small business. Since then, it’s gone from microscopic to small, despite what people seem to gather on social media. “It looks like business is BOOMING,” remarked a friend recently. “Booming” isn’t exactly the right word. It’s more of a geriatric jog. Fine, crawl.

Why such a slow incline?

It’s complicated. Owning your own business and then scaling it so that you can generate a livable wage, hire employees, meet demands, purchase all the necessary licenses (trust me, there are tons) and insurance policies (oops), invest in heavy-duty equipment to improve efficiency, etc.–it’s not just complicated, it’s F-ING difficult. Sometimes I don’t even want to get out of bed. And then when I linger in my safety net of pillows and a down comforter, I come up with even crazier ideas, like starting a catering and personal cheffing business in addition to the bread business. It’s like deciding you want two more kids when you can barely afford to keep one alive.

Last week, my relationship ended. The dissolution had been months in the making. We were desperate miners trying to pass off pyrite as gold. For a while we believed we could. But in the end we couldn’t.

Last week was also when New York City was ravaged by below-freezing temperatures. Being indoors felt sad, so I filled my schedule with outdoor activity in hopes of sparing no time for nostalgia. Yet the cold city thrived with warm memories. Mine. His. There was his old apartment in the East Village where he lived after college. His favorite pizza joint. The cafe in Clinton Hill where he’d begrudgingly get his egg sandwiches. “Horrible service. But convenient,” he’d always say. My tear ducts throbbed whenever I’d see a couple canoodling in public. He and I were such unapologetic offenders of public canoodling.

Shopping at Whole Foods was the worst. The aisles were stocked with stories.

Daikon: The first time I cooked dinner for him. Ribeye: The first time he cooked for me. Kale: Every single time we ate dinner with his kids. God, I miss his kids.Nuts: We had only been dating for a few weeks when he left for a month-long photo shoot in Texas. I woke up in his bed the day he left, hung-over and hungry. I stumbled into his kitchen in search of provisions and found an empty bowl and a jar of nuts on the counter. Next to the still life display was a Post-it note that read, “And the yogurt in the frig for breakfast. XX” He had written “frig” but I didn’t care that the “d” and “e” were missing or that he was missing, because everything in my life had fallen into place at that moment. And at that moment, I was at his place, blissfully eating his yogurt.

A good cook can as easily make a crummy cake as a good lover can screw up a relationship. Cooking skills don't necessarily carry over into the realm of baking. And sometimes a sexy cuddle should stay exactly that, no strings attached.

In cooking, there’s more room for error. Anyone with enough enthusiasm, a decent palate, maybe a glass of wine or a shot of mezcal, can dive into cooking with wild abandon and end up with something delicious. An olive oil-finish, some squirts of lemon, a sprinkle of Maldon sea salt can go a long way to save a dish.

Baking on the other hand is a science. There’s just no rushing through the chemistry and math that transform wet brown batter into an irresistible chocolate soufflé. At restaurants, I’ll often hear friends scoff at their food and say, “I can make this at home! Psssh.” But I’ve never heard anyone tell me that she or he is going to recreate the chocolate babka from Breads Bakery. That’s because baking requires a tremendous amount of studying and practicing. And humility. And an acceptance that the first try if far from being the last. But back to that earlier analogy: Baking, like a relationship, takes work.

I suck at baking. Once, I attempted to make croissants from scratch. For three days, I’d jump out of bed at 5:30 A.M., salivating as I rolled and folded the laminated dough, dreaming of the warm, buttery crescents. By day four, it was time to bake the croissants. This was my first attempt, but I was already expecting Parisian patisserie-level perfection. But the croissants came out cakey and dense. Zero flakiness. They were good enough to be biscuits but not croissants. Hadn’t I followed directions? Or measured the flour correctly? Wasn’t I careful with the dough, like a first-time mom is with her newborn? I couldn’t pinpoint the problem, not with only one notch on my belt. Anything could have contributed to my dough’s undoing, like inferior ingredients to the uncalibrated oven to Mercury stuck in retrograde.

People never fail to surprise or shock me. In good ways or ways no amount of memory loss will ever allow me to forget. Like the time in 8th grade when I learned - on a three-way call no less - that my secretboyfriendforevercrush was going to the school dance with one of my good female friends. Betrayed and so obviously dissed, I wondered how I’d ever trust people - or myself - again.

I bake to tame my inner, sometimes irrepressibly volatile beast. When I’m on the edge of an emotional decline, like when I start stalking an ex on Instagram or trolling the net for Robert Pattinson/FKA Twigs pics, I turn to baking for comfort. It’s like keeping a zen garden, only with more delicious results.

Neither my mom nor my Po-Po baked. The oven was for storing clean pots and dishes. It was as foreign to me as the hand mixer, which I’d use as a pretend space gun.

In the 4th grade, word had spread that the Costco frozen section had pre-made cookie dough. Inspired by bestie’s description of this magical product, my mom and I headed to the grocery store where I mistakenly bought a tub of cookie dough ice cream instead. After opening the lid, my mom said matter-of-factly, “This is ice cream.” Stubborn and eager to prove her wrong, I convinced her to let me proceed.

Dad and I sat comfortably on the couch together. Our shoulders touched and our knees probably did too. This was our sitcom family moment, 20 years too late.

I visit with my father a few times a year and toggle between my “broken woman” and “dutiful daughter” personas, a little pissed about his absence during those complex and sometimes mortifying teenage years. (I’ll never forget the times my friends would ask about my dad, and I would say he’s a traveling business man. I mean, he’s an electrician.) Before I leave his house, I dutifully quiz him on his diet and finances. He’s always consuming too much canned foods or spending too lavishly. A “few times a year,” is probably enough for both of us.

But here we were, half-pretending to be close and half-experiencing an unusual father/daughter bond. He was ecstatically bragging about the beef noodle soup recipe he recently perfected, born from an old family recipe. I was happy to see him so enthusiastic, especially around me.

Last night was Chinese New Years, so my friends and I made our way to a Chinese restaurant in Manhattan to hear the clamor of other Chinese people and the clinking of china. Like the obedient Chinese kids we are, we ordered all of the auspicious foods traditionally eaten during New Years. Our table overflowed with noodles (long life), fish (luck and prosperity), chicken (family coming together), oranges (wealth), dumplings (fortune), and more. We're gonna be rich, bitch!

This is the fifth year that I’ve celebrated Chinese New Year without my family. so I've been trying to recreate family dinners – minus the home-cooked dishes and sadly, minus Po-Po.

If I had gone home this year, however, things would have been a little different. First of all, I’m too old to collect red envelopes filled with cash from my elders. As a gainfully employed 30-year-old, I AM one of the elders. I would have jealously side-eyed my niece as she received hers. After all, those little red envelopes are a rich part of Chinese tradition, and they do so much to validate one’s youth and naiveté.

We were sitting adjacent in a booth, with a view of the entire restaurant, lights dim as is the trend in most Brooklyn restaurants so we couldn’t really see anything but each other. We could barely even read the menu. He was holding the small tea light up against the menu. I was doing the same. We were on the same page, no pun intended.

This was our second date. Our first one had gone so well that naturally, our second spontaneous daytime hang out spilled over into the evening. Our nonstop conversation did as well.

He was the first guy I met who seemed normal and kind of interesting. We both swiped right on Tinder, engaged in some witty banter, crossed our fingers and hoped for the best. Here we were, at my favorite restaurant in Greenpoint, knowing full well that dinner was just a precursor to “dessert” at his apartment later.

“We should share plates,” he suggested. At this point, I was swooning - hard.

“And why don’t you pick for us?” he continued.

It was like he entered my brain, looked around, and exited through my heart. And my heart was bursting with a million butterflies.

My grandparents have been married for over 70 years. Technically, my grandpa (or Gong-Gong) passed away about 24 years ago, but they’re still married. I’ve encouraged her to hit up the geriatric dating scene. But, “Gong-Gong and I will reunite in the after life,” Po-Po insists. Theirs was true love. Not the foggy-brained, dewy eyed, passionate kind of love that dissolves into deceitful, late night Tinder rabbit holes, but a partnership that’s weathered life’s unexpected tragedies. Shortly after Gong-Gong’s death, I awoke to Po-Po weeping in the corner of her bedroom. I felt it necessary to console her as best as a six year old possibly could. By asking a ton of questions. “What’s wrong, Po-Po?” I asked.

“Nothing. I’m just sad. But it’ll be ok,” Po-Po responded, trying to stifle her tears. The sun was rising and a soft glow crept through the window blinds. Her eyes looked so heartbreakingly sad.

But I obnoxiously pressed on. “What are you thinking about?”

“Oh, just about your Gong-Gong. I’m thinking about how we had no choice but to leave our families in China during the war. Just the two of us in Taiwan. He was the only family I had.”

While I was born in the U.S., my upbringing was anything but typical American. But what does it mean to be a typical American anyway? Immihelp.com says that, “People from all over the world have immigrated to the United States. Therefore, it is very difficult to define a typical American, as there is no such thing. However, a majority of the current Americans are of European descent; therefore, the description below is primarily with that in mind.”

This explains why sitcoms, movies, and books I grew up with in the mid ‘80s and ‘90s reverberated with cultural themes that I had a hard time identifying with. There’s a memorable scene from Full House that confused the shit out of me when I was ten years old.

“I think our faux-breakups makes us closer,” I said to my boyfriend this morning. We had just polished off breakfast – he had fried eggs and leftover pad thai; I had bacon and yogurt – and we were watching this TED Talk about “the secret to desire in a long term relationship.” It’s not unusual that a perfectly monotonous occasion like breakfast would become an event tinged with emotion and deep discussion. That's how we do. Luckily, my epiphany made him chuckle. "You're drama," he responded.

Our relationship has had some growing pains lately. There's been some yelling and crying, followed by making up and making out. I think we both relish in a little bit of drama. We occasionally need the long soliloquies in the middle of an empty street, the reflection of moonlight bouncing off of our tears, and the painful exchange of personal hygiene products, keys, or whatever else is symbolic of goodbye. And when the reality of finality hits, we embrace and end up filling the bedroom with loud, desperate but loving grunts. (TMI?)

When your soon-to-be 97 year old Po-Po tells you that she is retiring from cooking, all you can do is stubbornly fight the inevitable and lose. That’s what happened on my recent trip to Los Angeles for Thanksgiving. And while everyone took to the news with much relief (“It’s about time she stopped slaving away in the kitchen”), I was saddened.

A few weeks in planning and finally it happened: Po-Po's debuted at the Tradesman, a bar in East Williamsburg. I’m happy to report that what was dreamed up over brunch ended up being more successful than I could have imagined. We had no intentions of selling more than 30 beef rolls, but ended up cranking out 90+ orders. "Sold out" never sounded so good.

How it began

About a month ago, while at dinner with my pals Amy and Amanda, I suggested that the three of us host a pop-up restaurant. Amy and Amanda – both of whom are professional cooks – very candidly expressed their concerns with the complexity of a sit-down course by course event. They encouraged me instead, to focus on one dish. That one dish turned out to be my “Chinese burrito," which frequently makes an appearance at my dinner parties.

Last year I rushed home to Los Angeles on the last day of Coachella weekend—missing the hologram Tupac resurrection—for a beginner’s course in making Chinese wine brew aka fermented sweet rice aka 甜酒釀 (tian jiu niang). The instructor for this course was none other than Po-Po, who insists on making everything from scratch and refuses to substitute even the most insignificant amount of an ingredient with its store-bought counterpart. Since fermented sweet rice has a supporting role in many of her dishes, it’s become an essential DIY project and a tradition she’s generously passed onto me.